Purveyors of Death

They arrive each year, by first class

OR in their private jetsSometimes, hundreds of the family

Come to shop in Kensington

Staying in their otherwise empty


Londoners are priced

Out of their own home city
Dictators and despotic sheikhs

Kings of absolute monarchies

Descend upon the annual arms fair

The weapons and armory that

Control nations and crush dissent

The tools of war, which fuel more conflict

Are here to be bought, adored objects of lust

The Grim Reaper attends too, many of him

Gate crashing their sumptuous banquets

As guests of Her Majesty’s Government

Civil disobedience at it’s best, they spread

Information about child deaths, orphans of war

The maimed, the displaced, the refugees

In cloak and hoods, with scythes of truth

During the day, these folk with conscience

Will have laid in the street to block limousines

Or to stop the arrival of an armored tank for sale

They chain themselves together, and then

To a railing or lamp post. The police must

Remove them and this takes some time

Meanwhile, the public look on and learn

Some of these civil protestors are seen in court

Though none yet have been thrown in jail

As some of the weapons on sale for death

Are illegal, banned, or used for torture

Despite this being a fact, no one of the British

Government has been held to account

Strange injustice so great, blood on their hands

Published at Dissident Voice a long time ago.

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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